Re:member
by James Ray Edwards
Summary: [AU] Memories are very precious to people's lives.  They give us the opportunity to prove to ourselves that we exist, and if we lose them, we have an unrelenting fear of uncertainty. Signed, Mister Roger Smith.  P.S. Have your memories lied to you?
1. Memory 1 1: This World

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Disclaimer: 

Mahou Shoujo Lyrical Nanoha is the creative property of Seven Arcs, whom created this wonderful anime/manga series. Anything not attributed to Seven Arcs belongs to their respective owners, such as other series, references, and vice-versa. This story is written purely just for fun, guys; please for God's sake, don't sue me! I'm just a college student with too much free time on his hands! On the other hand, any specific author created characters I created for this fic (despite how unoriginal they may be at times) are mine. So without further adieu, let's get on with the show!

The Surgeon General's Warning:

Read at your own risk.

* * *

Re:member

for Crimson Air / For You / Memories of Once / The Detective's Story...

Memory 1.1:

This World

A Mahou Shoujo Lyrical Nanoha AU fanfic by James "Ray" Edwards

* * *

You are asking me --- oh, sorry; pardon the formality. Let us --- err --- Let's try that again, shall we?

Ahem!

You're asking me about how it all began? Sounds like an interview question from the History Channel to me, than say --- an innocent inquiry? Heh.

Now, now, no need to get flustered. I did promise you ten minutes of my time, so ten minutes you shall --- errr --- you'll get. Um, that is, that's-! How it goes in street vernacular, right? Trying to talk younger than my age vexes me terribly so, as you can see.

Hm, well, never mind. Let's see now... Where did it all began?

I'd say it was **ten **years ago, yes, exactly ten years ago. You've studied up on the **Blastfall Paradigm Shift Incident**, haven't you? Oh, of course, you have --- Miss _Indie _Journalist-san because it is the very reason we live in the world we have today.

The Blastfall Paradigm Shift Incident, a catastrophic techno-magi phenomenon on a titanic scale that changed the course of history for an entire people: Over night ninety percent of the human population had its sleeping magical talents awakened in exchange for an entire star system cut off indefinitely from the rest of the galaxy. The world changed beyond their control, people had to change, as the laws they had held so dear before had been broken, completely and absolutely.

A new world order was necessary for the tumultuous time of chaos reborn for Mankind was trapped on a blue-green rock. The stars were beyond their reach, the Moon once more so close yet so distant, and they were forced to live under the phantasmal light of the aurora blast line that guarded the sea of stars. There was great fear, anger, despair, and confusion.

But instead of uniting together, Mankind chose to make war on itself. Taking advantage of the massive loss in telecommunications and the inability spy on one another due to the loss of their satellites, politicians and opportunists manipulated their nations against each other, for greed, for pride, and for glory. In three years of brutal senseless conflict --- now dubbed _The Unsung War _---the planet was scarred by weapons of mass destruction beyond comprehension, giving birth to the **Equatorial Winter**, a large flaming wall of arcane and physical energies that continues to burn to this very day.

Five billion souls perished...

O' shame on ye...

Humans, thy name is folly.

It was the worst tragedy I had ever seen in my life. The optimist in myself would like to say we are better today for it, but the cynic wonders if my good conscious can justify our present era of peace and --- _growing _prosperity over the silent screams of the dead?

The governments of the world are certainly still the same, even if there are only some one and a half billion of its taxpayers left. Human culture, the world economy, they way we live in the new modern era; that is what has truly changed the most above all. Compared to the rest of the galaxy, we are a relatively young techno-magi society, but we are no doubt making progress, and crafting our talents into something that is uniquely...

How should I say...?

In our nature?

Now, if there is any age group you ask that I am jealous of in our new world, it has to be the children of this new generation. What was it you media folk dubbed them again?

"Generation MxO"

The world will be watching their every step and breath, like dancing on a razor knife edge. Everyone has their hopes on them that it will be they who will fix all the world's ills through the miracles of magic and science. There is much to do, after all, for starters: Mother Nature has gone completely mad, the weather prone to out of control disasters, much of the land is scarred and despot. She has given birth to strife and monsters from the darkest corners of the human imagination that continue to ravage the Yellow Zones and Red Zones at this very moment. Of course, let us not even get started on the subject of the misuse of magical arts, and _Lost Logia _--- the famed Black Technology of "God" that have been discovered even here on this world.

But, ah! Look at the time, so sorry, Miss Aya Shameimaru of the fantastic Bunbunmaru Newspaper; it seems our time together is up.

Oh, sorry? I did not mean to slip back into my formal tones. Oh, you are not angry about that? Oh yes, our time is up! Hahaha; now, no need to get offended. To my understanding, journalists --- be they self-styled or paid by the hour --- are a very determined and insatiable species. I am sure you will discover some way to blackmail --- err --- _negotiate _some more time out of me again, though I cannot swear there will be another opportunity for us to meet.

After all, being the Section Chief of Arkham City's Public Mystic Authority Section 7 is not a job for idlers and fools, though I find it fortunate I am doing a lot of grunt work myself these days, instead of growing fat behind a desk.

_Ciao_.

Special Enforcer Chrono Clyde Haraoun, AKA _The Chief _--- to his friends --- and to the enemies of public order, **The Blue Breaker**, Age: 24, Clearance: **Classified**, Magus Certification: **Classified**, Martial Status: **Widower**.

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To be continued...

* * *

Author's Notes:

Well, there you have it. Memory 1.1 in all of its glory. Thoughts, feelings, questions: hey, fire away, fellas. And yes, Chrono is --- a little bit "crazy", and there are quite a few subtle and not so subtle hints already sprinkled about in this episode as to why he is so --- eccentric. Don't worry, this is a somewhat linear story, so next episode things will become a little more clearer.

Thank you all for tuning in and remember, I always encourage each and everyone of you to feel free to comment, review, and/or discuss the story. Your comments can really make a difference, I assure you, and if you're up to it, feel free to ring me up on AIM, or even send me an e-mail (although you really don't need to boost my ego too often). You know how to get in touch with the _maestro _here.

_Tsudzuku_!


	2. Memory 1 2: Of Monsters

* * *

Disclaimer: 

Mahou Shoujo Lyrical Nanoha is the creative property of Seven Arcs, whom created this wonderful anime/manga series. Anything not attributed to Seven Arcs belongs to their respective owners, such as other series, references, and vice-versa. This story is written purely just for fun, guys; please for God's sake, don't sue me! I'm just a college student with too much free time on his hands! On the other hand, any specific author created characters I created for this fic (despite how unoriginal they may be at times) are mine. So without further adieu, let's get on with the show!

The Surgeon General's Warning:

Read at your own risk.

* * *

Re:member

for Crimson Air / For You / Memories of Once / The Detective's Story...

Memory 1.2:

Of Monsters and Me

A Mahou Shoujo Lyrical Nanoha AU fanfic by James "Ray" Edwards

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_Wer mit Ungeheuern kämpft, mag zusehn, dass er nicht dabei zum Ungeheuer wird_.

He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster.

Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche

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Time index: 070001082035.

Sunday, the one day that the populist God of this world chose to rest on, after having spent the last six days creating the world and the universe. I, on the other hand, would beg to differ as I was not one to rest, not while the _wicked _lurked in the shadows of **my **city. Even now, I had a skeleton shift operating back at headquarters, monitoring the usual channels for signs of --- activity. I had come today only on the advice of...well, an old memory. She always told me I worked too hard, and eked a promise out of me. Call it a personal resolution if you will, that no matter what happens, personified I am like a God of this world --- the herald of Justice and Light --- I would at least take a sabbath on the morning of this hallowed day of rest, before carrying out my duties. After all, if God, the great creator of all life would rest on the seventh day, then even a humble servant of the peace would rest a little while on Sunday before continuing his work.

Yes?

Summer was in full bloom, and the cicadas out in full force chirping away (though, at times it sounds like they are crying, mournful --- but for what are they crying?). How persistent of the Japanese, even if it is a western city built on the soil of Japan, the spirits of this land persist as always that some things will never change. For example, the summer heat wave! Still here and still hot as hell, even with my blouse taken off and wearing this Charlie uniform (our section did not have an official uniform, an issue of discretion you see, and the one I am wearing presently was from my brief stint as a uniformed officer on the street) it was still horrible, but I would bear with it.

She --- She always did love summer time: trips to the beach, a big bonfire gathering, festivals...and naturally, she would drag me along despite the forms and reports pilling up at my office.

The cemetery was off on the outskirts of the city limits, on a scenic hillside. I had a perfect vantage of Arkham City from here, beneath the shade of the tree I chosen as the final resting place, apart from the rest of the folk sunning themselves. From here, my city really did seem to be your archetypical metropolis of the Blue Zone --- the city of tomorrow --- bustling and busy, teeming with human lives and growing taller each day, while her vices below became ever more so virulent and decadent. I experienced all the good and all the bad every day first hand, but at least here on these hallowed grounds, I could relax for a time in my sanctuary and delude myself with the illusion "that God was in His/Her Heaven, and All was Right with the World."

There was only one gravestone, though the casual observer would have noted it was rather --- elaborate --- and highly likely, expensive. Then again, I was never one to care for expense, as my fortunate beginnings had afforded me much luxury and bred into me a natural compulsion for philanthropy. Money was no object for one such as myself; human lives were infinitely more valuable, and once lost --- could never be recovered.

The cold, hard truth stands before me right now.

I had carved her in the image of an angel --- a Judeo-Christian icon and symbol I had come to learn of on this world --- standing between an arched column, wreathed with ivy, while birds in flight decorated the archway. She stood, so that she may see the sun be it dawn or dusk. Her wings stretched out as if in flight, wherefore a dove and a swallow perched on her shoulders, a heart shaped pendant hung from her neck, and a broken sword was cradled in her arms, as two winged cherubs --- a boy and a girl, twins --- stood at her feet, playing with her robes. It was a beautiful sculpture made in a white marble finish to which I saw to that it was maintained on a regular basis, so that her "living" memory would never fade away.

Alas, even though this gravestone looked just like Her in life, I have forgotten. I have tried so hard to remember, and yet my memories have lied to me, as if my heart is rejecting the past just to save my pathetic self of the present. Her name, Her beauty, Her smell, Her life; they are all fading away from me, a nostalgic haze that clouds my eyes. It is only before irrevocable proof of life that I can remember Her, just a little clearer.

I commissioned the twin cherubs, even though there was not enough left of the children to join their mother in repose. It was all I could do; the _least _I could do. Perhaps, some day I will compile all the video and pictures I still have under lock and key to create a holodisplay memorial...when it is all over, and then maybe --- I will have the strength truly to live again.

"_Here stands Amy Limietta-Haraoun, and her children, Apollo and Diana._

_Beloved Friend, Comrade, and Wife_..."

Damn it, I cannot read the rest. My eyes, my vision has become cloudy and salty. I hate it when this happens; happens every time too I try to read her epitaph. Why, I...

Ugh, I did not come here to...crumpling in my hand...yes, that's right! The flowers. I came to give Her some flowers. I would --- I would stay and chat. After all, we have not talked in --- the last several weeks have been busy, and I have only had enough time just to visit.

But --- but our --- in several days it would have been our fourth anniversary together, yet...YET!

In that moment of weakness, my outrage consumed me. For three years now, three years I have been trying to find _**that monster**_, and yet...YET!

In an instant, the bouquet in my hand disintegrated into a shower of sparkling photons, leaving only singed blistering flesh and wisps of smoke scented with blood. I was reaching my limits of control fast, and I could not go back. I knew what I had to do, subconsciously; I had to run; I had to get away from here before I hurt someone, something, or myself.

And so I ran, just like the weak, broken man I knew I was inside...unable to move on, trapped in his past, jumping at shadows, and chasing a nightmare in the endless midnight that plagued me every second of my waking life. But I cannot move on --- not until **everything **has been settled. **Everything**. Between me --- and **That** **Monster**!

_Hah_...

I would have gotten away too, if that damned fool of a woman had not stopped me.

We --- We should not have met that day. In fact, I have not seen hide or hair of her since the funeral, all the better. I was not the man I used to be, and I did not want anyone who knew me for that matter to see my anymore. I had done a perfect job hiding behind obligations and duty, so that I never had to see them face to face, telephone conversations short and to the point, all telepathic channels blocked, and written letters short and to the point. They did not need to see --- the _monster _I had become myself.

But alas, today would be my undoing.

"Ch-Chrono...?!" she yelped, stopping me dead in my tracks.

I had run past her, intended to keep running and never look back, but all it took was her voice and I was done. I dared not to look at her. The surprised awe of her burgundy red eyes cast upon my back was a great enough burden already. If I had to look at her, the guilt would surely have broken me. Alas, we were comrades of many battles and journeys, enemies at one time, and even siblings for a time.

I **owed **Fate T. Haraoun, at _least_ --- the common courtesy.

Besides, now I know who has been gifting _snowdrops _at the grave of my late wife and children.

"HOPE", eh?

* * *

To be continued...

* * *

Author's Notes:

Well, there you have it. Memory 1.2 in all of its glory. Thoughts, feelings, questions: hey, fire away, fellas. The plot thickens…

Thank you all for tuning in and remember, I always encourage each and everyone of you to feel free to comment, review, and/or discuss the story. Your comments can really make a difference, I assure you, and if you're up to it, feel free to ring me up on AIM, or even send me an e-mail (although you really don't need to boost my ego too often). You know how to get in touch with the _maestro _here.

_Tsudzuku_!


	3. Memory 1 3: Of Hope

* * *

Disclaimer: 

Mahou Shoujo Lyrical Nanoha is the creative property of Seven Arcs, whom created this wonderful anime/manga series. Anything not attributed to Seven Arcs belongs to their respective owners, such as other series, references, and vice-versa. This story is written purely just for fun, guys; please for God's sake, don't sue me! I'm just a college student with too much free time on his hands! On the other hand, any specific author created characters I created for this fic (despite how unoriginal they may be at times) are mine. So without further adieu, let's get on with the show!

The Surgeon General's Warning:

Read at your own risk.

* * *

Re:member

for Crimson Air / For You / Memories of Once / The Detective's Story...

Memory 1.3:

Of Hope and Me

A Mahou Shoujo Lyrical Nanoha AU fanfic by James "Ray" Edwards

* * *

I recall there is an idiom from this world (though I find it hard to believe it was this very "humble" place that gave birth to my father). Something along the lines of:

"Women are like wine, growing finer with age."

Or was it?

"Wine is made to be drunk as women are made to be loved; profit by the freshness of youth or the splendor of maturity; do not await decrepitude," by Theophile Malvezin.

Hm, or was it?

"Wine is the drink of the gods, milk the drink of babes, tea the drink of women, and water the drink of beasts," by John Stuart Blackie.

In any case, I **suppose**, whoever came up with the theme was not completely off his (or her) rocker, as Fate T. Haraoun was proof that the age old wisdom works and is very much so alive, well, and true. Now I never had the opportunity to meet her matriarch, Precia of the Faint Smile (A.K.A. Precia Fallyna Testarossa), but from the research I have done on her records and achievements stored in the Bureau's private database, it is obvious where Fate's beauty and talented prowess comes from. I dare say she even inherited her mother's personality, a compassionate and just woman of strength, before the infamous incident with her daughter, the late Alicia, drove her mad and caused her to go rogue.

Though on the side, I now wonder just **who **her _**sire **_was? What kind of man had Precia F. Testarossa fallen for? Back home, at least among the high society I grew up in, there was great importance in knowing one's lineage and where those roots have come and gone. Granted, many of the self-styled "_Archmagi_" --- the nobility, if you prefer --- used this as an excuse to justify their selfish privileges and arrogance. I believe myself to be lucky that my own family, a touch old fashioned but by far more cosmopolitan and earnest, was of a _different _breed from the rest.

Alas, that might be part of the reasons for my present **madness**...hm.

Well, the years have been kind to Fate, the Stars know she deserves some kindness. I --- I remember, oddly enough, many faces of her, despite my chronic absences, though there are three right now that truly stand out: the first, when she was the ardent black witch, despairing in sadness yet resolute in her purpose. The second, when she was the little bird --- freed from her cage and her bonds for the first time, and soon to be my adoptive sister --- shy, a little timid, but full of hope for the future. And the third...

Now pardon for digressing but there is a side issue you are all probably quite interested in... I do not recall the exact legalities involved with Fate's case, but my mother and the rest of the family decided that her "adoption" was to hold until "she was of age to decide her **destiny **for herself." It was out of respect, you understand, as they did not want the girl to bear any _**cross **_unwillingly or --- unknowingly, not to mention to the best of our knowledge she was the last of her line. Hence, 'tis difficult to say what my relationship to her is exactly at this time because she is of age, but we are unable to settle that affair, as long as we are stuck on this rock.

Which brings me back to the third that stands right now in front of me: the young woman, beautiful with long blonde hair like the rays of the shining sun and burgundy red eyes of the same vivid color as the famed wine from that region on this world. I admit her summer _yukata_, in a bright Japanese rose color with water lilies for a rather bold floral pattern, fought valiantly to --- ahem! --- _humble _her plentifully "well endowed" figure. Though judging by the profuse red on her new doe-eyed expression, the outfit was not quite of her choosing; she worked up the courage to wear it in public, but she did not make any contingency plans, in regards to running into an --- _old _acquaintance.

Still, my compliments to her fashion coordinator this morning, getting that _obi_ on must have been a nightmare but the result is a smashing success...

What is that it say?

_Sexy_.

_Beautiful_.

And...

_Moe da ze_!

Is that it?

Funny, just a moment ago, I was dreading speaking to her, and her seeing me like _this_, but now, the tables have flipped all of a sudden. The ball had returned to my court, the beast within my ruptured heart had subsided, and the cynical devil on my left shoulder was in rapture. I could play this game any way I wanted at no expense to myself, and poor Fate would not know the difference. Hiding secrets, keeping secrets, finding secrets; I was very good.

...but whatever goodness was left in me would have none of it. The young woman in front of me _deserved _the **Truth**, at least --- as much as my heart could sincerely tell her.

"Chr-Chrono, it's..." stuttered Fate, breaking the ice. I wonder which one of us was more uncomfortable meeting each other out of the blue. Flushing red, fidgeting, unable to meet my gaze...my, my; I have not seen her this --- awkward in a long time.

"Been awhile, yes?" I finished for her.

A whipping breeze blew by in the span of silence, rustling the leaves of the tree that shaded the grave of my wife and children. I am certain she had many questions to ask, as did I of her. Of course, it annoyed me some that one of my former comrades could not muster the courage to look me in the eye, and **try **--- try to speak to me. Had I changed that drastically? Or had she grown soft in the time she had been away from the fight?

"You've --- you've lost weight, N..._Nii_-nii." She smiled at me, a real smile.

Now **that** made me wide-eyed like a thunderstruck fool. I never expected to hear Fate's pet name for me ever again. She used it once when we were younger, a rather embarrassing moment, as I came to find out that even Fate T. Haraoun for all her strength was still a girl at heart. Who would have thought she would have a little "special weakness" like that?

Suddenly, I found myself laughing, a genuine carefree humorous laugh.

"Ah-hahaha! F-F-ate-Fate-chan! Di-d-Didn't I tell you --- uo-hoho! --- n-never to use that name unless, ah-ha! --- unless it was a life or death situation?"

If I didn't think it was possible before, but now it was without a doubt. She was actually blushing a color to match her _yukata_, with a priceless flustered gasp on her beautiful face. It was cute, impossibly cute --- or should I say as the young people do --- _moe_?

"B-But, Onii-sama! It's-it's true! You really have lost weight. I-I --- I can see it in your face, your hands, and your eyes are so dark and swallow..."

"Oh by the Stars, Fate, I know you love the Japanese and we are speaking in the ley of the land, but please, you do not need to address me with such respect. I did an awful, horrible, _terrible _job being a brother to you. I left you alone; I was away almost all the bloody time!"

"Chr-Chrono...! That's not-"

"You should not even **think **of me as anymore than that Chrono-_teme_ in blue, or _Admiral _Chrono Clyde Haraoun Le Fay --- the Bastard who was. _Too_. **Busy**. saving the World, the Universe! --- to even bother _saving _his own wife, and children, when they needed _him _most."

And _that _was my pathetic piece... I do not understand how I could have lost control so --- suddenly. I had intended for a somewhat pleasant conversation, evading as many questions as possible, answering the few I was willing, and then making my getaway. Instead, I --- pardon the expression --- blew it, and now...

I had woken up the warrior inside Fate T. Haraoun Le Fay. That aspect of her had been watching, waiting patiently behind the veneer of the young woman, and it was through letting her talk.

"Chrono, stop it," she spoke --- no --- she _told_ me in a strong voice, devoid of any bubbly girlish affection or innocent solicitation. A friend from the days stood before once more, and there was a kind, sadness in her hardened eyes --- sympathy --- just like on my mother's face that day at the funeral.

After all, amongst all of us, they knew what it was like best to lose someone. The death of my father as a young boy, I remember, did not devastate as much as this **one **did... Like myself, he was a man of duty, always away where the stars needed him, but blessed in the least by a wife, a family, and friends that loved him for what he was: a hero. I accepted it humbly as the subject of death in the line of duty and the repercussions was something our House had firmly educated me in. Of course, I shed my tears and grieved, but in the end, I never got to know him...

...and that is truly my only regret. The reason, why I was able to feel no ill feelings when it came time again to finish my father's work on his last job: The Book of Darkness. If anything, beneath my calm surface, I was happy to help for this would be as close as I ever would get to working with Clyde Leo Haraoun, my father.

"...Chrono-ku..._iiya_, Chrono-san: what's happened to you? What have you done to yourself?" Fate asked me --- or more accurately pleaded with me.

I could feel the undercurrent of pain in her determined voice, smell the need --- the desire in her body to drop her bouquet of snowdrops and embrace me, tell me it was going to be all right, that things would get better... She was a kind and strong woman, the type that cannot just leave things well enough alone. If there is injustice, it must be righted... She already had it all in her from the beginning, meeting Nanoha and the rest of us was just the catalyst

"How unlike you to be insincere, Fate-chan." I smirked darkly, an evil unconscious action that came forth from the poison that was flowing freely now from my broken heart.

The reaction was instantaneous as Fate flinched, drawing back like she had been struck.

"Chr-Chrono, you've --- you've changed...so much."

"For better or worse, feel free to judge me."

"...Chrono..."

"I am not one for games, Fate, so let us get to the point --- how long have you been here?"

Oh, what a liar I am because we were playing a game right now: give and take. And she knew it too, but the soft scowl her face assumed...

"You don't call...you don't write...you excuse yourself, conveniently...and you expect me to-"

"Exactly, because you want answers. Your much adored White Devil is still M-I-A somewhere in the Hell beyond the Blue Zones, searching for her _family_. The depressed ferret sequestered himself somewhere at the Miskatonic University and is elusive as ever. My mother is retired, deluded, and heartbroken, dulling her sorrows away in astronomical wealth and success. Hayate has cut herself off too and has taken it upon herself to go around the world with Interpol for the sake of peace and stopping those megalomaniacs and monsters before they unleash nightmares beyond human reckoning. And wherever Hayate goes, so goes the Wolkenritter too.

There is still Elio and Carol to worry about...and who knows when that monster Jail will resurface. Honestly, you are beginning to wonder why in the Stars did Vivio sacrifice her life? And Subaru, Tia, and more? For what? They did not do it for things to turn out so horribly like this, and yet they have... Our **memories**, our _bodies --- _this _time _--- **cannot **be trusted. We are trapped on a world that is the like the Earth we know, yet is not, in a history dissimilar and similar to our own time. People we knew, who lived and died, are here alive and well, leading lives that are not so unlike before, experiencing **tragedies **that are not so unlike before...

But it is _not _the same, Fate. Trying to understand it, to solve the mystery of this Paradox is impossible. Or if you prefer --- it is a Miracle that is not meant to be understood, created by the feelings of an unfortunate, innocent child."

"**Liar**," came the dreaded maddening word, spat at my feet with all the cold vehemence a woman of twenty-nine years could muster in her nineteen-year-old body.

But there was no anger from me, just cold resignation: a kind of sick despair.

"The last ten years of your life was not an illusion or a delusion, _Fate_-_chan_; and the ten years before that, and your gifted memories of nine... It all happened. And right now, you are afraid, that is why you were desperate enough to come **looking **for me, to come to **my **city --- the city where I lost everything. That is _**why **_we are having this horrible conversation here and now!"

She was trembling, hands balled into white knuckled fists crushing her bouquet of hope. The truth hurts; yes, I know, Fate, and it is all your fault for making me say it too.

"What else do you want me to say, Fate? Do you want me to keep killing you softly with these words? That in addition to your fears and despair, **you** are also _lonely_. After all, Arf cannot be by your side right now for she is keeping my mother company, watching her every move so the damned fool woman does not hurt herself or worse!"

She hung her head now, golden bangs veiling her face --- as if to shield herself. But oh, what a useless, childish tactic; if she wanted me to shut up, the least she could do was put a fist to my face!

"That is right, Fate! You are completely, utterly **alone**, and the only person you can rely on right now is that god damned loon, Chrono Haraoun, out of his mind, out of this world... And he cannot bother to give a damn about..."

_**Thwack**_!

It happened quite suddenly. I did not even notice myself walking towards her, but damn --- my jaw is going to feel phantom pains tomorrow --- that is one mean right cross! Now, I know what that bastard, Jail, must have felt like when a Fate T. Haraoun happened to him.

"I...I didn't wait that long and six months...for this, Chrono-kun."

What? Tears?

"Ha-Have...have y-you...re-really for-gotten..."

Sobs?

"Even...ev-eeven if re-revenge is..th-the...only..."

Ah, the snowdrops...she dropped them...

"Hu-human beings...n-need...each...e-each other..."

They have been crushed.

"I-I...need you..._onegai_, pl-please...don't leave me alone, Nii-_nii_! Ther-there isn't...there isn't... I-I...am for-getting...don't want...for-get...!"

I see.

So that's how it is, huh? The reason for it all: **fear**. By the Stars, I hate it when my feelings, my instincts, and my reason all come together into a beautiful deduction like this... She is trying to cling onto me because there is no one _else _left to hold her.

_Che_, how easy it would have been at that moment to reject her. Who in the hell wants to be a consolation prize, a token living doll to be held, adored, loved, and discarded when it was no longer necessary? Unlike myself, and perhaps most of mainstream society, Fate truly never "grew up," as her views of human relationships was much more so from a child's innocent and pure perspective.

The dynamics of men and women was all lost to her: that is why she clung to Nanoha, and I do not doubt in my mind for a second, **loves** **her**. Fate will wait forever for the White Devil, and could careless if the --- well --- somewhat unstable woman-child were to take a husband, as long as she could be with her. Sure, there will be a big fight over the fellow, but in the end, all will be well. ...I envy that to be honest-!

...By the Stars, did I just think I was envious?!

...ugh...

Well, pardon my crude language, but I believe _this_ word is perfect for the occasion:

F--K!

There, I think I feel a little better now.

...ugh, have I fallen so far that I cannot even delude myself with a false sense of contentment? That revenge was all I needed... And when it was finally over, I could move on?

Dammit, does this mean I am lonely as well? All of this just from the flicker of humanity left in me, the feelings I tried so hard to kill, to bury because they would only hinder me, destroy me?

And they all woke up just now because: the angel, Fate, appeared before me and begged a sinful devil like myself to take her in?

F--K!

This is bullshit!

This has to be some kind of joke.

I cannot be seriously...urgh!

One foolish, naive woman --- girl-child! --- is not going to bend my will! I refuse to be her boy toy. I am not her brother. I...!

F--K!

Why won't she stop crying? This whole damn thing began because the lot of you women! And worse, I was the fool who sat back and let it all explode out of control.

It all began because of one woman!

And now...!

F--k...

What am I supposed to do now? What the hell would her _real_ father have done? By the Stars, what the hell did **HE** do f--k things up this bad?

Shit, I stand corrected now: it all began because of one MAN.

Or is it a man and a woman?

F--K!

I am not going through with this! I won't! Fate's just going to **use **_**me **_to save herself! 'Tis the nature of human beings!

F--K!

The coppery scent of blood woke me up, finally. I stared dumbfounded for a moment, registering that I had subconsciously bit my own lip. How ironic that it would be that vile crimson karma that flows through my own veins that stilled the raging beast inside me. In fact, this was the second time where my own body had saved me...

The first was when...ugh, now is not the time for that memory. I will see it again soon enough, tonight in my nightmares. Besides, there was something more important in front of me that needed to be taken care of...

It **disgusted **me.

"You are a **horrible **woman. _Wanting_. _Needy_," I told her coldly, my lifeless eyes liken to chips of ice.

If I was an evil man, I would have relished in the shocked gasp she gave me, her beautiful face frozen somewhere in an grotesque expression of wounded betrayal.

"To think you came all this way just to **seduce **me. _Pathetic_. _Petty_. How the noble have fallen..."

My, my, how words can kill so effectively.

"..Ch...chr...Chro...chro-no...?" Fate managed to choke out, just barely.

"It seems you have _**changed **_too. You are not the woman I used to know, the girl I called sister, and the comrade I fought and bled beside."

"...N...no...n-no..._iiya_! Chr-chrono...stop it! You-you're mis-mistaken...I-!"

"You are of age now, She not of My Blood. My kin and I have sheltered you, raised you, and loved you for much a time, but **you **have done wrong to us for you have shamed our name this day. 'Twas a name that we would have offered to you as your own, if you wished it so, now that you are a woman."

"Don't!"

"As sole representative and witness of the House of Le Fay: I, Chrono Clyde Haraoun Le Fay, hereby strip you of all titles and ties given to you, Fate T. Haraoun Le Fay. You are severed and freed, and will bear the name of your birth. Live for yourself, die for yourself, and never show your face in this house again."

"Please, Chrono!"

"Get thee gone hence: _**Fate Testarossa**_."

Just like that it was over. She fainted dead away. Hit the grass like a dead puppy. Staring at her reminded me of a corpse, many of which I have seen, and I believe I am due to see our first victim today in an hour or so. You cannot imagine how industrious the fiends and cults that hide in my city are...truly.

As for Fate? I called for an air taxi and sent my vehicle back on autopilot. There was no way I was putting that wanting wretch in the back of my patrol car with me.

* * *

Too bad, at that time, I should have known it was already too late for the gears of fate had already begun to turn with that encounter. Despite my actions then, some ties are beyond blood, stronger than hearts, invisible to the mind, and utterly inseparable.

We had become involved together: She and I.

* * *

To be continued...

* * *

Author's Notes:

Well, there you have it. Memory 1.3 in all of its glory. Thoughts, feelings, questions: hey, fire away, fellas. And by the way, I just came across the screencap just recently of a Haraoun family photo sitting on a bureau next to a photo of Precia and Alicia(?) from StrikerS. I will tell you all right now: I feel like a complete jackass for doing this to Chrono, but GOD DAMN DOES IT FEEL GOOD. The conflict's about to kick off, so brace yourselves and don't get lost.

Oh, by the by, Master Person with many aliases, on the subject of the kids --- I don't think they have been named yet myself. I only picked those names in particular out of mythological/symbolic significance, see Greek/Roman mythology.

Thank you all for tuning in and remember, I always encourage each and everyone of you to feel free to comment, review, and/or discuss the story. Your comments can really make a difference, I assure you, and if you're up to it, feel free to ring me up on AIM, or even send me an e-mail (although you really don't need to boost my ego too often). You know how to get in touch with the _maestro _here.

_Tsudzuku_!


	4. Memory 1 4: Grim Tidings

* * *

Disclaimer: 

Mahou Shoujo Lyrical Nanoha is the creative property of Seven Arcs, whom created this wonderful anime/manga series. Anything not attributed to Seven Arcs belongs to their respective owners, such as other series, references, and vice-versa. This story is written purely just for fun, guys; please for God's sake, don't sue me! I'm just a college student with too much free time on his hands! On the other hand, any specific author created characters I created for this fic (despite how unoriginal they may be at times) are mine. So without further adieu, let's get on with the show!

The Surgeon General's Warning:

Read at your own risk.

* * *

Re:member

for Crimson Air / For You / Memories of Once / The Detective's Story...

Memory 1.4:

Of Grim Tidings

A Mahou Shoujo Lyrical Nanoha AU fanfic by James "Ray" Edwards

* * *

Arkham City.

My city.

Alluring neon lights, holodisplay billboards, Greco-Roman Gothic skyscrapers careening into the blue sky as if to touch the heavens, industrious and metropolitan, subways, maglev trains, auto cabs, air cars; people everywhere and nowhere. It was like living in a regulated beehive that was tall and wide, pied off into sectors, counties, and beyond. Naturally, a command and control was necessary to oversee this titanic operation, and so rose up a megastructure: the Nexus Tower, an iconic monolith alive with the power of humans and magitech made in the image of a face that dwarfed even the skyscrapers.

Of course, "she" was not the only one of her kind. Go to any new major city that has been built in the aftermath of the Blastfall, and I promise you will see some kind of megastructure. Well, that is if you live in the Blue Zones...

The Yellow Zones are a completely a different story, but that's a story for some other time.

It took a while for the air cab to arrive at the cemetery, even if I was at the first lot. It took longer for me to shuffle the broad into the backseat so we could take off. It took **even **more time for me to drag an address out of her, as it seems she fancied herself to be a doll now.

I was grateful to the cabbie for giving me the benefit of civility in keeping his nose out of the mess. Then again, I was in uniform, and most people tend to look the other way when officers of the law are involved. Nobody wants any trouble, especially from people who are trained to use their magical talents to --- _enforce_ the law.

In any case, turns out the Testarossa woman is living in a rather nostalgic part of the city,_ Little Tokyo_. Granted, we might as well call it Nippontown, considering its idiosyncratic demographic and culture. Of course, we have nationals of many different backgrounds living in this city and many native Japanese for we are in Japan, after all, but the selling point is: there is no other place in Arkham City that you will find more of the natives concentrated together in one spot.

And it _shows_...

Shinto Shrines.

Extravagant parks with more cherry blossom trees you can shake a CIWS at...

Public Baths.

Convenience stores of every make and type.

Buzzars.

Love Motels.

Little specialized wards, for example they got their own Akibara --- the electronic and high tech mecca of the real Tokyo.

Traditional domiciles, Western-style ones, or fusions of both architectural philosophies...

The old and the new coming together to form the present. Little Tokyo might as well be its own county, considering it crossed into the jurisdiction of four others. But nobody influential or ambitious has bothered to complain about them yet, and the Japanese there are pretty happy with the way things are running, so the saying goes:

"Don't fix what ain't broke."

Narutaki Apartments, Building #7 between 7th and 8th Street, was her stop, and I was quite surprised by how nostalgic the building and location felt immediately. Unlike western-style apartments, Narutaki-sou had eschewed that philosophy in favor of something resembling a Japanese inn (minus the second floor, which could be added in the future) with a tasteful courtyard that all the residents shared no doubt. In fact, considering its communal design, I wonder if it was meant to foster a sense of "family" in the residents, regardless of how long they stayed?

Hmm, no matter; we had arrived and it was time for us to part.

Getting the woman out of the taxi was no easy affair. It was a classic case of passive aggression; that is to say, she was not actively resisting my efforts to extract her out of the vehicle, but she was not cooperating either. Granted, I may be wrong and she just honestly did not care for her burgundy seemed so listless and indifferent that I might as well have been interacting with a...

**Doll**.

At the realization, I was struck with a sudden chill, eerie and discomforting. Fortunately, I had learned well to hide any sign of weakness in the past four years, a necessary skill to survive in the streets of my city. You see, I have become a rather infamous household name amongst the would-be villains and dissociative freaks, so much that I am target regardless if I am undercover in civilian attire or not. Thus, I have actually found it more advantageous to wear my barrier jacket in broad daylight: its generic law enforcement design allows me some camouflage to a degree, while attracting my prey and keeping the civilians a good arms length or more away from me.

Nobody wants to get into the personal space of an officer --- unless they are looking for trouble.

I paid the fare and bid the cabbie a good day, and by the time I turned around, he was already long gone, joining the heavily regulated air traffic above. Personally, I was grateful to the city council's policies of limiting air travel in my city's airspace strictly to government vehicles and personnel, public transportation, and a few select enterprises as to avoid congestion in the skies. Of course, I was not grateful for any pro-environmental reasons mind you; less people flying in the sky just meant I had less collateral damage to worry about up there when a skirmish inevitably breaks out.

Anyways, I think it is about high time for myself to "disappear."

"...are you...are you really..." interrupted the faintest of whispers.

Oh, I knew all too well who it belonged to, and glancing over my shoulder, I was struck by the stark resemblance she had at that time to another her. It was the same hollow, pitiful expression she wore some twenty --- or was it? --- a life time ago as the young black witch. Ironically, it was an expression I had seen on the White Devil herself and many others, yet why is it I had never worn it myself (or at least, I think I have never worn it)? Had I somehow been born in capable of feeling whatever bundle of emotions that would create such --- despair --- betrayal --- disappointment? What?

When the murder had happened, and even at the funeral, I recall for some reason that all I could do the entire time was stare --- watch --- as if my mind was burning whatever I saw straight into my retinas. Why is it I feel that I have forgotten so many things, but in a paradox, it seems I still remember the most, the best of all that has happened? Is it my duty perhaps to remember all that which has been forgotten by the others, yet be unable to recall it at will lest they interact with me in some way?

After all, I did not even think so much about Fate Testarossa, until she tried to walk back into my life this morning.

"As the idiom goes from this world: '_as good as it gets_.' But instead of pitying yourself, should you not be more concerned about those _two_? They will be turning sixteen soon...if I recall correctly, then again, their '_bodies_' are even more grossly distorted than ours, and this is likely as close as they will ever be to becoming _adults_. They deserve a chance to know --- **The Truth** --- about themselves, about the past, about this world, before they..."

But predictably so, she was not listening at all. The very fates of the two "children", her grave responsibility to bear, was insignificant, trivial compared to her own great misery. Granted, I played a hand in making her heart bleed a fresh swathe of crimson, but you must understand hers was already broken before she became desperate enough to seek me out.

It just was not black like mine. Surely, Fate must have known that even I know nothing of how to cure the "**Cancer**" that eats away at us. As I mentioned before (I think), the symptoms are varied and many, but the most obvious is how it affects our memories; hence, why I said our memories could not be trusted. If memories are what define the "Me" of the present, and the present "Me" defines the future "Me", then you can understand it is quite a sticky problem.

Any responsible adult, I think, does not want to lose sight of themselves or just lose themselves, and this "**condition**" is changing us beyond our control. A proof of its power is standing right behind me; with any luck, it won't kill us, but 'tis hard to say if I can even call that broken woman in my shadow Fate Testarossa anymore. She has changed so much: so soft hearted, vulnerable, insecure, and weak.

I wonder sometimes if this is all part of someone's grand scheme to...but for what? If only I could remember that last battle clearly, the moment where everything changed, and we were doomed to our fates here on this world. For now, all I can do is keeping moving forward, pray for the day the next act of our "_Heroic Age_" will begin, and live in fear for the day I am no longer myself --- or _worse_.

In any case, it was about time I left. My sabbath was long over, and I had wasted enough civilian taxes as is idling these precious minutes away, but I suppose the Stars had a different plan in mind for me this morning. As I turned to move away, I felt a tug on the tail of my uniform's blouse --- tiny and insignificant by most standards, yet it stopped me dead cold in my tracks.

Suddenly, a haze of sensation overwhelmed me: hot, cold, burning, electric, numb, and the thud of a heartbeat --- my heart. There was an unnatural tightness in my chest, like suffocation, and a dangerous bittersweet smell in the air that set my instincts ablaze with caution and danger.

"...chr...chro-no...Chro-no..._kun_..." she whispered over and over like a broken record.

That damned fool what has she done to me? I did not even sense any discharge of _mana_. What kind of "Trap" spell was this? With her civilian status, she should not be capable of empowering a spell protocol this powerful --- unless she had somehow tampered with or removed her Limiter-!

My thought were interrupted by a second tug, and I felt her pull in closer, nuzzling her cheek against my back. She was positively purring now of all things, just like a cat. The symptoms grew worse: the colors in my vision washing out into greys and black, hearing more acute, and perspiration accumulating rapidly, as if I had just caught a high fever.

Though I say my hearing became more acute, it must have been my own delusion for I heard the woman's voice begin to warp and change as she repeated my name. There was static, scrambling, many voices, noise, few voices, like a radio being tuned to the desired frequency, and then --- there were two, just two. Hers and the girlish giggle of another I had not heard in...

"_Keh_...L-Let...go..." I barely managed to choke out.

...and there was only one.

C-h-r-o-n-o.

"...Y-you're...not...can't be..."

Chrono.

"..._She_..."

Chrono?

"...A-_Amy is_..."

Chrono!

"..._already_..."

Chro-no!

"**DON'T TOUCH ME**!" I howled in a sudden explosion of rage.

I was angry, of course. Furious, out of control... Who would not be after being toyed around like that, teased by the memory of their most precious loved one? I was **justified **to lash out. Preying on **my **memories: she must have gone mad completely to try a scheme so heinous. Did she think, honestly, I was _that _weak?

In the heat of the moment, time slowed to a crawl as I spun about, batting aside those feeble arms and stepping into off-balance her. A feminine cry escaped her lips, wounded and fearful, when my arm thrust out and struck her, a hammerfist to the chest. Deadly force (magic or otherwise) was not always the answer to everything you understand, and the martial arts' was something I applied myself to in my profession.

The blow was more than sufficient to send a broken creature like her to the ground, but nothing could have prepared me for what was to be seared into my heart --- for a second time. Horror rooted me to the spot, robbing me of anger, courage, everything. It was just like that macabre "portrait of lament" that grotesque, grisly scene from four years ago!

A mangled "dissection"?

Evisceration: entrails torn out and sprayed about like ribbons and banners...

A foot here, a hand there, a finger hither...

Organs excised, discarded, "stolen?", cooked, "eaten?"...missing...

Broken, split, lacerated, trauma, molestation, rape..."cannibalism?"...

Excrement, hair, tears, nails, skin, a ring, a ribbon --- bagged and tagged...

Stitches, bites, marks, sigils, mockery of the flesh...

Blood, so much blood everywhere, blood sprayed out as Angel's wings, feathers...

_But why is there blood on me_? _On_. _My_. _Hands_?!

"..c-cHr...o-N..o..?" coughed the cooling corpse, crimson and black spilling out of its slit throat.

It --- it quivered. S-S-she --- She spoke! --- to-t-t-t-to me! Th-those --- those eyes --- d-de-dead!

"N-n...nO...N-no-no..._**No**_!" I heard myself cry terribly, as I staggered forward, hands trembling, a deluded child-like mewl distorting my words. I was reaching out for something, towards --- towards _Her_, but...but-!

This --- th-this could not --- c-could not be! I-I... I-I did not...was not...!

A-m-y.

Am-y

Amy!

What have I...?

"_Ho_, that's quite a mess you made there. I was almost afraid you were going to choke on the children, hahaha! You must have been hungrier than I thought, _**newborn**_. _Fufufu_, so tell me was it good for your first time? Are you still hungry for some more --- _guts_, hmmm? _Kukuku_, of course you are...they always are hungry for _more_."

Those --- those voices! So many! From where? Who? What? How --- how dare they mock me?!

"Damned sorcerer, I command you: show yourself!" I screamed, my voice breaking shrilly with desperation.

Honestly, looking back at that moment, I did not expect an answer. In fact, it would have been better if I never got an answer, for it was then that my nightmare began... It was not a memory anymore, but made flesh and blood:

**The Monster **was real. It was --- it was real!

Blood in suspension, moving, forming...

Organs, muscles, tissues, cells dividing and sub-dividing, proteins...

Framed on a skeleton, humanoid with avian wings upon its back, hanging hunched over just a foot off the ground, as the foundations of "life" dripped off of its form like melting wax. It was still incomplete, but I could hear its heart beating, a loud sharp reverb, that resonated even with my own. I had fought many an abomination over the years, made by men and the ones Mother Nature spawned out from the darkest hell of the Red Zones, and never once had I faltered before them.

In this twisted renaissance of magic, as I have come to see, many self-styled evangelists and cult groups have been trying to "revive" the "Gods" of yester year. Naturally, it falls to individuals like myself to route them out and destroy their man-made "Gods" --- monsters in every sense of the word, I swear to you --- before they can do any more harm to society. I do not believe I will ever be able to grasp why the people of this world are so God fearing, and have this irrepressible desire to bring themselves one step closer to their fancied ideal of "God." Heaven, Hell, Angels, Demons, the supernatural: 'tis all hogwash to me.

But looking at that --- _thing _in front of me, something was different this time. I --- I felt _fear_, as if I was so small that I was at the mercy of being crushed at a moment's notice. I could feel "eyes", tens and thousands of them watching me, an unnatural, immaterial pressure pressing against my temples; something trying to worm its way in --- **no** --- it was already in from...!

_Hello_..._Alastor_.

Now, an ordinary person would have screamed and fled in terror, after being greeted by their archnemesis --- or should I say anathema? The said greeting was the perfect trigger to break the spell of an instant; time resumed, as it should; and there was Fate on the ground, curled up in a ball like a child, choking back the sobs as she cried anew. I was hyperventilating, sweating down to my socks as if I had been roasting out at high noon in the badlands for hours.

But there was no time to think about anything because those burgundy eyes ran me through. Desperation, desire, despair, need, hunger, want, lust: she wanted me, needed me, to possess me so badly that she would reach out for me still, even after how horrible I have been to her? Madness, this was mad...

And then, I felt sick. My hand rose to my mouth on reflex, as my body constricted in a sudden convulsion. I staggered back, eyes wide with shock, and a frenzy of questions on my mind: What was happening? What did just happen? Was that magic just now? A spell? Who or what on Earth could pull something like that off? Amy! The Monster! My --- my memories! Has Fate been...?

_Ugh_-!

Blood and spittle dribbled past my hand; I was at my limit. I --- I could not stay here, not like this... I had to...

She cried out my name again, but I could hardly be bothered to decipher the storm of emotions glistening in her eyes.

_I have to get away_.

And so I ran, not looking back, not caring: a gutless cur, his tail tucked between his legs, with only one thing on his mind, that is, _to survive_.

* * *

I must have ran about three blocks, holding my stomach down just barely --- a rather superhuman feat that I would never have accomplished if not for my haywire fight-or-flight instincts driving me like a slave driver. Again, the uniform saved me, diverting away prying eyes and letting passing pedestrians know well enough to stay out of my way. It is not as if they distrust us "officers of the peace", but in my city, chances are when you see a cop, trouble is nearby or on the way.

When my stomach finally did give out, it was the famed golden arches of all damnable things that greeted me. I still have not forgiven for degrading me with a classic case of food poisoning through their mass consumable burgers. But I suppose the garbage boy was going to hate me more (or more appropriately that dumb bastard "A") because I did not quite make it to the dumpster offset behind the building (no drive-thru, thankfully). Dropping to all fours, I had no choice but to retch and forcibly eject a vile smelling slop of bile, bits of oxidized blood, yellowy acidic digestive fluids, and whatever the hell was left of my minimal breakfast.

Eating food is a continuous action to myself, as my present lifestyle has determined that having fixed meal times to be a detriment to my efficiency. Besides, while I was idling away over food, some naive soul out there could be someone else's dinner or-! Oh...ugh...that was not smart. The thought of ritual cannibalism just triggered another round of retching from me, you see.

Dammit, why can I not have just a moment of peace to think? Something was happening. No. Something **did **happen. And I-!

_Vrrrmm_-_vrrrmm_-_vrrrmm_!

But, of course, my cellular phone had to go off right then, derailing my thoughts to the back burner. By the Stars, I swear this better be good, or I will...

"_Fuagh_! Haraoun here, what do you want?" I rasped out into the receiver none too kindly, easing back onto my rump for a seat. Vomiting all that --- pardon me --- crap has left me more than a little dizzy and dehydrated. And let us not even speak of the horrible bitter taste in my mouth right now...still, I had appearances to keep up, so I slipped as best as I could back into the cool persona of "The Chief."

"Ch-Chief, where have you been? Are you all right, Sir?" answered the indomitable sweet tones of Lieutenant Shario Finieno, my first at the SIGINT (Signal Intelligence) section back at headquarters. She was a huge fan of "TREUE", the black valkyrie (which was Fate's alter ego when she still fought, by the way), and is arguably the "coolest, baddest witch!" to ever grace the face of the earth.

I swear, some "children" never change, even with a second chance at life. Trust me, never ever get her into a conversation about "_FURU-METARU _CRISIS", "Aim for the Top Gunbuster!", "NewType Magazine," "Wizards and Witches Magazine", "Jane's Magic Devices Monthly"... If you do, pray there is some expedient means of leaving the room, or otherwise --- may the Stars guide you.

Yes, she is a nice enough young woman when she is not in "_MEGASSA moe magitech mecha _fangirl" mode, but good luck to whoever has any romantic intentions with her.

"Finieno, if you were getting paid to look after my health, I have faith you would have been given a handsome bonus by now."

Did I mention her "skin" is as thick as a brick?

"Oh, Chief! You're such a kidder," she giggled affably, ignorant of my less than friendly tones, "You know, I could careless for a raise, but if you really want to be nice... _O-NE-GAI desu_, please, please! Sir, will you let me transfer to the R&D division? Please? Pretty please? I'll even treat you to dinner at..."

"_Denied_, Lieutenant. We are, _bleagh_, short on people as always; I cannot afford to let you go; and I must refuse the offer as I doubt you could afford whatever ridiculously high luxury venue you are aiming for."

"Ch-Chief, _buuuuu_, you're such a grouch!"

"No love lost, Finieno, and besides," I amended quickly, "I appreciate your connections with the boys and girls down in technology. That's come in handy more times than I can count off the top of my hand, not to mention your expertise and charm are indispensable to us all."

Ah yes, a little give and take always gets the right results.

Shario giggled, pleased by my praise evidently so. The reasons being: I am her boss, and an ultra-rare "honest & cool, wild-type _bishounen_ dark hero" according to her analysis, so getting any praise out of me was tantamount to a miracle, at least from her perspective. Of course, the fact I am rarely in my office or at headquarters gave her another ounce of pride (see: bragging rights to the other females in Section 7) as the gal, who has the most "air time" on record with "The Chief," the elusive "Hero" of Arkham City.

"Okay, Chief, I'll let you off this time."

"You are a goddess of mercy, Lieutenant. Now --- what's the SITREP?"

I sensed her hesitation instantly when Sharion did not reply. Of the many things I had come to learn about her, she tends to be foolishly gung-ho about her job, much like the "super robot" pilot's she is fond of in her "extracurricular interests." In these three years, she has had to report more than enough "tough" cases to get her feet wet, and her job forced her to be the first one always to hear the "bad news" involving incidents (or should I say "disasters"?) that the regular police forces are otherwise ill-equipped or ill-trained to handle.

"Finieno, talk to me --- what happened?" I prodded gently, doing my best to hide my own anxious curiosity --- no --- deadly anticipation. "Who's the culprit? Is it the Cult of Hastur again? Some loose cannon? A new face?"

Sharion sighed, a sign of ill tidings... I did not like where this was headed at all.

"Chief Haraoun, do you --- do you remember three years ago, th-that...oh, never mind."

"I beg your pardon?"

"S-Sir, you --- you'll understand when you get to Little Brooklyn... Uploading the address of the scene to you now, and don't worry --- the officers on site will be expecting you. HQ, out."

_Beep_.

* * *

To be continued...

* * *

Author's Notes:

Well, there you have it. Memory 1.4 in all of its glory. Thoughts, feelings, questions: hey, fire away, fellas.

Thank you all for tuning in and remember, I always encourage each and everyone of you to feel free to comment, review, and/or discuss the story. Your comments can really make a difference, I assure you, and if you're up to it, feel free to ring me up on AIM, or even send me an e-mail (although you really don't need to boost my ego too often). You know how to get in touch with the _maestro _here.

_Tsudzuku_!


	5. Memory 1 5: Suspect

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Disclaimer: 

Mahou Shoujo Lyrical Nanoha is the creative property of Seven Arcs, whom created this wonderful anime/manga series. Anything not attributed to Seven Arcs belongs to their respective owners, such as other series, references, and vice-versa. This story is written purely just for fun, guys; please for God's sake, don't sue me! I'm just a college student with too much free time on his hands! On the other hand, any specific author created characters I created for this fic (despite how unoriginal they may be at times) are mine. So without further ado, let's get on with the show!

The Surgeon General's Warning:

Read at your own risk.

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Re:member

for Crimson Air / For You / Memories of Once / The Detective's Story...

Memory 1.5:

Suspect

A Mahou Shoujo Lyrical Nanoha AU fanfic by James "Ray" Edwards

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Time index: 113501082035

The Mason's Residence, Building #117, the corner of Fifteenth Street, Park Slope, "Little Brooklyn"...

To my experience, most police officers born on this world do not prefer to take to the skies, even if they have the freedom and the authorization to do so. I believe, there is a certain phobia to flying as free as a bird without a parachute on your back, or a pressurized seal between you, an aluminum cabin, and the near infinite "blue yonder." Of course, there are exceptions, but few people try to make like "Superman" due to safety hazards.

I certainly decided to fly, as traveling any other way through Arkham City would be too damned slow. My city --- or should I? My mega city? --- is simply titanic in scale. I have been tinkering with the idea of "Teleportation" these past several years, but with my "pressing concerns", I have not been able to take the spell protocol beyond the prototype phase. Even then, it is extremely inefficient and there lies the danger of myself being "splinched" into the pavement, a building, or some other obstruction if my "calculations" are off.

Traveling east bound towards the waterfront, I was given a subtle appreciation in the diversity of my city, as Shinto shrines and _torii_ gates gave way to churches and synagogues. I find it ironic that the Japanese settled in the west while the "Westerners" settled in the east, primarily. Little Brooklyn, in truth, is not so little at all (much like Little Tokyo, except Little Brooklyn is legally its own county); they might as well call it "Brooklyn", but I hear the residents here decided on the name out of sentimental value. I hope you are starting to see the trend here as far as how the peoples of this world have settled in this "fortress of humanity." If you go to any other mega city in the Blue Zone, I assure you, you will see the same trends as well.

In any case, the neighborhoods down here are characterized dominantly by "19th Century" brick townhouses and brownstone. The residents here are typically bilingual at least in the capacity of Japanese (a mandatory requirement by the Japanese Government, you understand) and English, though it is not unusual to find people with more language skills. They were their own independent community, complete with public facilities, restaurants, bars, shops, parks, green spaces, neighborhood gathering spaces, and the list goes on and on, according to a survey done by _Natural Home_ magazine's December 2034 issue.

Did not take me long from the air to spot my LZ, a cozy neighborhood edging a wide public park; there the county police had already cordoned off the entire block. My arrival on site, however, stirred a bit of trouble, judging from the reception committee gathered. By appearance, I had the standard-issue Arkhamn City Police Department barrier jacket active, which was more or less identical to the one I wore as a Bureau enforcer some ages ago:

First, the distinctive black greatcoat, fitted to the wearer, with grey panels and highlights, and a pair of mana turbine "spikes" on the shoulders. Then, there were blue combat trousers, flat grey armored gloves and boots, and a pre-configured utility belt with whatever the officer needed. I chose to forego materializing my helmet, like the officers below, simply because they were designed riot squad-style, and not exactly suitable for every day work.

In any case, the lack of any identifying remarks or insignia was some cause of alarm. It went against regulation, you see, and the sergeant, a typical heavyset civil servant fellow, confronting me was about ready to arrest me, if I was an impostor, or give me the reprimand of my life, if I was some hot shot greenhorn. Fortunately, one flash of Section-7's badge and my own identification, prompting a reaction in his bifocals widening to the size of dinner plates (in metaphor), and the problem was taken care of...though I wish he had not apologized so profusely.

Typical of the Japanese...

Turns out the sergeant was the senior uniformed man on deck in charge of security outside. The detectives and other investigative personnel were inside already, and awaiting my arrival. He joked to me the college runts had no idea who I was, which they should not if security protocols have been followed to the letter, and they were expecting a civilian, not a "real deal **mega **spook" from the Japanese National Public Safety Commission. His description is fairly accurate for despite our moniker, "Public Mystic Authority Section 7," we adhere much closer to the operations of a paramilitary intelligence department by virtue of our wide jurisdiction and powers.

My specialty in particular revolves around: firstly, organized crime, specifically the trafficking of _Lost Logia_ --- Black Technology that has ironically been discovered on this world too. Secondly, I took notice of crimes committed by the unlawful and/or inhumane use of magic, particularly ritualistic murders, sacrifices, experiments, etc. And the third would be everything else I do...investigating cults, terminating these evangelist terrorists and lunatics, and putting them behind bars (if I have to) along side the rest of their twisted ilk, sociopaths and psychopaths alike.

I do not believe in Gods and Devils, much in the same way I believe that magic does not kill people. It always comes down to people, and that vision back there at Fate's apartment must have...!

Alas, my thought was interrupted by a sudden billow of thick scented cigar smoke. The foul stuff invaded my nostrils by an involuntary sniff, and instantly, I was struck by the urge to gag and reel away from it.

"Well, whad'dya know? Welcome back to Earth, Mister Haraoun," a smooth and lightly bemused baritone greeted me in English. "I was worried ya'd gone off in to outta space and would never come back. Hope the Cuban didn't offend you too much."

Thanks to the rude awakening, I was aware that I was now inside someone's home, that is the home of Mister Harry Mason, if I recall from the address Sharion provided for me is up to date. I must have stepped inside subconsciously with the sergeant, and well, here I was now: I could hear the sounds of activity coming from the other rooms, as investigators and forensic specialists buzzed in and out of the hallways.

"Detective Sergeant Wolfwood, I'm the guy supervising this show," the new fellow introduced himself with a theatric wave of his cuban cigar. He was older than me, roguish, dark haired, the glimmer of a five o'clock shadow, a semi-permanent smirk, probably early thirties, maybe late twenties, and his barrier jacket hid his physique that was not noticeably pudgy or thin. The air confidence he carried about himself, combined with the irritating smoke, gave me enough clues he knew how to handle himself in a fight and was no greenhorn.

"Chrono Haraoun, Section-Seven." I nodded. He did not need to know anything else about me.

"Heh, sorry 'bout the breach in protocol if you're into that sort of thing, sir. The lieutenant **always **runs late to the scene, if you know what I mean. God loves to interrupt him with bad news at the best time possible, yeah?"

"Hmm..."

"Hey, Takeda-san, you can head on back. Wouldn't want you to see anything that'd scar your wife and kids for life, ya know?" Wolfwood turned to address the other sergeant, easily picking up on the older heavyset fellow's unease thanks to him fidgeting around.

Was the air in this place honestly that oppressive? Hardly, it feels just like home to me.

Sergeant Takeda bowed gratefully, and promptly escaped out the front door without a further. Perhaps, he was more used to dealing with traffic violations, theft, and domestic violence, instead of "tough" cases such as this supposed murder. Then again, that sort of grunt work is normal for patrol officers...a murder on the other hand would be --- extraordinary.

"Now that he's gone, why don't you follow me and I'll fill you in 'bout what we know so far, eh, sir? The sooner we get this over with, the sooner you can disappear, go back to the Tower, and do whatever it is you do that keeps us all ordinary and happy."

The victim was one of their own, in fact: a police officer, been a veteran on the block for twenty or so odd years. Lieutenant Cybil Bennet, single, a real hardass, used to work in the States, before coming here to Arkham City. She had a pretty good Magus Certification of "B+", a crackshot on the range, and knew how to handle herself in a fight. Even if she was a friend of the suspect, there was no way he should have had a ghost of a chance in hell of taking her, especially not --- with what he did to her.

"Nasty stuff." She was pretty much "attacked": bites, stab wounds and lacerations presumably from some kind of knife, lots of head trauma, punctures in her throat from when he was strangling her, broken jaw, and pretty much tore up the entire living room and kitchen with her. They would have to wait for the autopsy for the full details of everything that happened, but the CSI boys and girls are busy with her right now in the kitchen, so Wolfwood could not let him have a look.

The suspect, on the other hand, was a surprise from left field. Harry Mason, middle-aged, a mild-mannered writer and editor, widowed and never remarried, and had one kid, Heather Mason, his teenaged daughter. Mason's magical potential was laughable at a "D-", low even for a civilian. No history of any serious crimes save for the usual round of moving violations, and he too came from the States.

It was a little _ironic _to note he was a "Horror Novelist". They were still trying to contact his daughter and get her into custody as soon as possible, should Mister Mason be the on the loose, and out to kill again, before "disappearing" or conveniently committing suicide to evade the law. After all, a dead man was no good to the living and Officer Bennet's family when they are the informed the news of her death; murdered by someone she called "Friend".

"Now, the part we called you for here, sir," Wolfwood gestured, as he lead me up the stairs, "is right 'round the corner. Please, by my guest, and have a look first. Go left, straight. Master Bedroom. Can't miss it. Oh, and don't mind the wards; they're only there to --- well, you'll see what I mean. Don't sweat. I'm right behind ya."

I did as the detective instructed, and sure enough, immediately spotted the blue glow of the wards he mentioned. Upon closer inspection, I recognized them to be sealing wards, fairly high level and somewhat brutish in execution, using Shinto-themed paper seals plastered in en masse all over the walls, floor, and ceiling. It was a semi-permeable containment seal, apparently so, as I could pass in and out of the "bubble" without hindrance.

The bubble itself projected a soothing air of peace and purity, but as I approached further in, my instincts grew on edge. The coppery smell of blood was a dead giveaway, but the foul --- "malicious" --- miasma that followed behind it was what truly got my attention. Now, I am not the type to believe in the romantic notion of "killing intent", but I know what it feels like to have someone's full malice brought to bear against me.

The source was coming from the master bedroom, predictably enough, the door splashed with blood and more of the crimson life leaking out from underneath. "Blood Magic" is a barbaric phenomenon I encountered here for the first time on this world. I refuse to acknowledge it as a true magic system (in fact, it is illegal, a forbidden taboo), but --- I cannot deny its effectiveness either: close quarters combat, sabotage, subterfuge, and assassination, a violent and extremely aggressive art. The Belkan offshoot of Mid-Childa magic **pales **in comparison.

It does not help all practitioners of the style gain the ability to drain mana and "burn" the magic circuits of their victim's linker core, which can combined with another of their foul talents to increase the drain efficiency and temporarily "silence" the victims. They also possess a kind of natural "supernatural" magic resistance, and a kind of arcane affinity that happens to make them, again, naturally proficient enchanters. Of course, all too many cultists, satanic evangelists, rogue individuals, and vice-versa, prefer this magic system, as it suits their masochistic and/or sadistic megalomania.

"_The Seal of Solomon_, inverted pentagram-style, two concentric rings complete with a goat's head," Wolfwood's voice interrupted, alerting me to his sudden presence behind me. "Right smack dab on the door, and it's still giving me the goosebumps."

Honestly, I need to stop being so over introspective, or should I think about acquiring a familiar for myself?

"If that ain't somethin' occult, satanic, whateva' then I dunno what is."

With his apt words, it was obvious enough now that Mister Mason may have had connections to occult activities (my area of expertise), his "horror novelist" status not helping. However, I noticed something more queer just above the seal, a greeting...

"'_Welcome to Paradise_'?" I murmured aloud, hoping the detective sergeant would divulge a hint or two my way. The phrase felt awfully _nostalgic_, but I cannot seem to remember where I heard it or saw it before...

"No idea. Still, waiting on that; could be a clue, but with all due respect, I think you oughta be more worried 'bout the blood, **sir**."

Wolfwood's friendly tone grew just a little colder then, putting my instincts even more on edge. I knew a threat when I heard it, and the dagger glare biting in my neck was a familiar feeling, but he was not about to make his move yet.

"What about the blood?" I asked him.

"We did some preliminary tests. Nothin' conclusive yet, and it turns out the blood there is Mister Mason's, Officer Bennet's, and --- **yours**."

Ah, now the puzzle is starting to come together. I assume this is part of the reason Sharion was so hesitant over the phone, but perhaps, I could be wrong. At the time, she seemed to have been more worried about the case than me. She must have a lot of faith that I was not the culprit or a collaborator in the effort to be my alibi, considering Officer Wolfwood here has some rather incriminating evidence of my presence at the scene of the murder.

But with my carte blanche immunity as "Special Enforcer," he would not be able to hold me unless he had definite incorrigible evidence and witnesses to the crime. The ball was in my court, still. Let us see how much more I can play out of him:

"Could you give me an estimate on the time the murder occurred, detective?"

"Oh, 'round seven in the morning," he replied nonchalantly, remaining in my shadow. It seemed he did not rule out the option of taking me down right here, yet. "We didn't get here until about an hour later when the Nine-One-One call went out from a scarred shitless neighbor. Don't worry, we got 'em in custody too, safe and sound."

"Well, I honestly cannot say how they managed to get a hold of a blood sample from me. I have not donated blood in years."

"We'll see how sincere your testimony really is soon enough, sir. But there's still one more thing we need you for, before I let you go."

Hmm? He's letting me go just like that? What's the catch?

"I want you to open that door," Wolfwood informed me. An audible click of a safety release by ticked off made it clear to me that he was serious too. He had no qualms about shooting me in the back; after all, it was a perfectly legal act of "self-defense in the process of detaining a flee suspect".

Though, honestly, does he expect to stop me with just a Weapon Device?

I smiled. "Let me guess. The door's been magically booby trapped to high heaven. Your team of experts have tried everything in the book, and even simple common sense, that is approaching the quarters from outside, above, and below, but the trap is perfect. The only one who can open it is me, as if the killer wanted me to come here, specifically, yes?"

"And to the point, why did the sick bastard pick --- **you**? A spooky guy like you, who belongs to the Tower, has so much red tape hiding him, that an ordinary sicko like Mister Mason should have no chance in hell of finding you. And I wonder, for real, just **who **are you really, Mister Haraoun?"

"I am afraid that information is classified, detective. But as for the killer and this door --- well, you all have my attention now. This sort of thing is part of my area of expertise upstairs, and I am interested to see who would call me out, personally, knowing how infamous I am in **their** world."

"Man, save the cloak and dagger, hocus pocus, creepy shit for someone else. I'm just a cop, and I got no intention getting mixed in with you crazies. My only joy in this is tracking down who did this to Officer Bennet and bring the freak to justice, case closed, ya dig?"

"Understandable." I nodded before stepping towards the door. Of course, before I began the process, a darkly humorous thought occurred to me, prompting me to glance back slyly at the cool detective. He did not bat an eye at my gaze, but the long intake of breath let me know he was quite edge and my ruse ought to be entertaining.

"You may want to take some precautions, Detective Wolfwood. Wouldn't want you to be covered with my bloody remains and gore, if something went horribly, horribly wrong, yes? Blood Magic is rather _fickle _and violent, you realize."

The detective scoffed at my warning, his custom chrome finished Powered Glock 18C, a vicious Weapon Device patterned after the classic machine pistol, clearly visible now in his dominant hand. He had a choice between limited enchanted bullets or a near-limitless supply of magic photon bullets. Of course, at this range and the fact I did not come prepared to fight another officer, he had a pretty good chance of seriously hurting me before my struggle bind could take effect.

In any case, he gave me a wide berth and settled to my task, breathing deep to focus my concentration into tapping the surrounding mana and my own reserves. The boosted gloves that comprised S4U, the blue control medals glowing white as particles gathered about generating an interface array. On cue the "blood seal" reacted, glowing alive, and I was able to pick out a line of code that stood out in permanence above the "controlled" chaos of multiplying runes and cannibalistic sigils: it was my name...

"CHRONO".

A keyhole formed in the seal, clearly asking for myself to "donate" some of my own mana to close the "deal" per say. I was tempted to poke around its architecture, instead of bowing out so simply, as there was much one could learn about another through his or her magic. The workmanship here was unlike anything I had previously encountered: anything made by humans has a pattern or some form of order, no matter how twisted the mind that crafted it.

This _thing_ was...

_Click_.

Suddenly, the seal fizzled out before my eyes, and the door creaked open. Surprise and shock filled my flaring senses: who the hell had just opened the door? I had not done a damn thing yet!

I shot a questioning glance over to detective only to find...

_Thud_.

I heard the clatter of the magi-pistol hitting the wooden floor, but even so, the sight was surreal. In the short span of my observation, something had gone horribly wrong. The house had grown eerily quiet, no longer could I hear the background ambience created by the chatter and flash photography of the personnel below. I was left entirely alone with the bubbling pool of blood saturating the "empty" remains of Detective Sergeant Wolfwood: his uniform, his magi-pistol, and his storage device, a "harmless" cigarette lighter.

My first instinct was to call for backup. The situation had spun unexpectedly out of control and right into my jurisdiction, a "Code Blue" warranting an immediate lockdown of the entire neighborhood in a two square kilometer radius with a "Class I" temporal force field: just in case things get messy. I needed an Incident Response Team here ASAP to secure the site, isolate any additional incidents in the area, salvage all of the evidence for analysis back at HQ, and get us out of here. Site security will stay on post until local authorities can relieve them; otherwise, we were never there and nothing happened.

In fact, the incident will cease to exist. This was a major attack that caused the deaths of at least twenty police officers, by my reckoning (assuming the officers outside have met a similar doom), and the public cannot know of any of what has transpired here. Arkham City is a haven, you see; yes, we had our round of crimes --- felonies and misdemeanors --- and other social ills, but terrorist attacks and mass killings? They do not exist. In fact, they do not happen, and we will do whatever it takes to keep the masses high on "opium and good feelings" because they do not need to know about the things that go bump in the night.

Yes: terrorists, extremists, outlaws, monsters; they are out there. But --- they are not **here**, you see?

Alas, I ignored my first instinct for once. Curiosity had the day; after all, why was it I was still alive and the others were not so fortunate? I had no better protection than they did with my "flimsy" barrier jacket in its default settings. Did the answers lie beyond this door?

My resolution firm, I dispelled the interface array and **summoned **a few old "friends": S4U, you see, is a Boost Device, specializing primarily in "the manipulation of space", a field I had been pursuing in the past several years. Its got the standard support utilities and defensive protocol spells, of course, but nothing beats the security knowing I am packing enough firepower and gadgetry with me everywhere I go to start a small war and survive easily for twenty-eight days in comfort.

With a snap of my fingers, the control medals glowed with a white hum of power, causing the surrounding phase space to warp and twist with visible distortions, becoming a thin viscous fluid akin to water. I reached in and out came S2U, my old friend ready for action, though I shortened him over the years more into a handy flanged mace, while my other hand was occupied with a "Type 30D Round Buckler" --- a shield gauntlet for the best description. It is a sophisticated "defensive" Weapon Device made by Isurugi Industries that shares a kind of --- "man-machine link" --- with the user, and thus, is capable of anticipating threats and deploying two independent "Round Shield" defense protocol spells that orbit the user in a defensive matrix. They can realign as needed at fantastic speeds, and can be used in a "traditional" style to hammer, slam, disarm, and crush opponents that get too close for comfort.

Armed and dangerous, I nudged open the door, the hinges creaking ominously with a shrill squeal. The rancid smell of decay and death hit me first, by my reckoning it was not fresh at all, several days old in fact. At a quick glance, the darkened master bedroom (thanks to the blinds and curtains being closed) as it turns out was quite spacious, enough to accommodate a small study. Dried blood, old caked ochre, and ichor was strewn liberally all over in a spiraling pattern leading to the center, forming oddly legible words:

"KILL!" again and again.

"EAT!" the same repetition.

And then, unexpectedly...

"Kill him; kill, Chrono Clyde Haraoun Le Fay!"

Now **that** got my attention: whoever they were knew my full name. ...How in the hell did they find that out? I never told anyone; no one outside of our coiled circle should know; and yet, here is the evidence of --- _betrayal_? Why? Who? How?

Black anger rose in my veins, a burning acid that threatened to drive me into a rage, but I managed to stem the flow when my eyes by chance was pricked by the disturbance of shadow and light. I was aware of another creaking then, slow and steady, almost like wail, that drew my eyes upward. Suffice to say, I found Mister Harry Mason, what was left of him anyway.

The medical jars below, filled with nauseating formaldehyde, proofed his identity: hair, urine, feces, an assortment of organs, i.e. liver, kidneys, etc., eyeballs, and a tongue. Somebody had hog tied the naked cadaver up to the ceiling fan, and gutted him like a pig, stitching shut his eyes, and let the entrails spill down as macabre celebration to his death. Another cruel unusual dissection, and I could spot chunks of flesh missing, bone visible, as if somebody had taken to cannibalizing him for a quick snack too.

Is this not just like what happened to A...Amy? the ugly thought struck me then.

But that was the only thing that struck me, a terrible bout of nausea gripped me suddenly, and I was forced to beat a hasty retreat. In fact, I tripped straight down the stairs thanks to a puddle of blood from another unfortunate officer's remains, my barrier jacket and a bit of good fortune saving me from any serious injury. But I was not done yet, an unnatural impulse drove me forwards, crawling out the opened front door through another puddle crimson and personal effects, before dry heaving myself nearly to death.

My throat was burning and hoarse, my chest sore and hurting, when the trauma was over. What sparked the almost septic shock-like reaction I did not know, and because I did not know it had me all the more worried. What was happening to me? I was acting unconsciously without my own will. The "Me" I know would never have fled from such a grisly scene, so who was this person, this skin I was wearing then?

Ugh, useless speculations; there was no way I had gone completely insane, yet. If I was insane, then it must mean we were all truly lost, with no hope of redemption, for I was the only one amongst all of us whose memories were still intact, untouched, and whole. "The Truth" lived within me, an awesome concept that had saved and destroyed --- everything; it was my privilege, my curse to bear, as "The Witness."

But enough, I needed to call Sharion; one look around me only confirmed my cynicism. The other officers had been dissolved into blood as well, their remains marked by their clothes and gear strewn about the cordoned neighborhood. In fact, the situation was probably even worse than I thought because the neighborhood was also eerily quiet, a grayish-white fog had descended mysteriously without my notice, blotting out the sun, and limiting visibility to a dozen or so yards.

Clearly, it could not have been a natural phenomenon as today's forecast was clear skies with no overcast at all, meaning somebody had to be doing this, in broad day light no less! What an audacious prick; I swear I will make them pay for taking us so lightly. The burst static from my cellphone soured my mood, driving me towards the idling patrol cars for a working radio that hopefully had not been jammed.

No such luck; I tried my linker core's telepathic channels next only to meet the same defeat too. Whoever was doing this was very thorough and meticulous, indeed. I was isolated, the sole survivor. Why? Who was doing this to me? What did they want from me? Was the hallucination from this morning a premonition? Did the Testarossa woman have something to do with whoever or whatever force was doing this to me?

Damn, there goes my healthy paranoia. The air grows chilly, and I can feel the cold cutting amazingly through my barrier jacket. I could take the time to prepare myself for battle or charge in ahead now. The perpetrators for this atrocity could not be far; in fact, they were probably watching me right now.

Problem is: where to start and what to do?

..._tee hee hee_.

A giggle?

..._tee hee hee_!

I followed the sound as best I could, spotting a silhouette across the street. Veiled by the fog, a feminine figure, I could not make out --- her identity too well, but that Bureau uniform...long brown hair, th-that yellow bow ribbon!

It could not be...?

"...A-Amy?" I blanched white as a sinner.

_Hello_..._Alastor_.

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To be continued...

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Author's Notes:

Well, there you have it. Memory 1.5 in all of its glory. Thoughts, feelings, questions: hey, fire away, fellas.

Thank you all for tuning in and remember, I always encourage each and everyone of you to feel free to comment, review, and/or discuss the story. Your comments can really make a difference, I assure you, and if you're up to it, feel free to ring me up on AIM, or even send me an e-mail (although you really don't need to boost my ego too often). You know how to get in touch with the _maestro _here.

_Tsudzuku_!


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